


Sealed in Marble

by adams_song, Nocturnalchild



Category: Adam Driver - Fandom, Silence (2016)
Genre: 17th Century, Angst, Artists, Churches & Cathedrals, Drama & Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Garupe is in deep shit, Garupe lose his virginity to you, Hurt/Comfort, Male Virginity, Passion, Praise Kink, Priests, Reader is an artist, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Romance, Romantic Angst, Sculpture, Slow Burn, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, blowjob, father garupe isn't that skinny, impossible love, reader is not a believer, virgin!Garupe, we butchered 17th century vocabulary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24025066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adams_song/pseuds/adams_song, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nocturnalchild/pseuds/Nocturnalchild
Summary: Father Garupe needs money to help his widowed cousin, and it's by sinning that he'll get it.* Where Padre Garupe poses nude for a mysterious Master Sculptor *Please read the tags !
Relationships: Adam Driver/Reader, Francisco Garupe/Original Character(s), Francisco Garupe/You, francisco garupe/originale female character
Comments: 26
Kudos: 60





	1. At the Doors of Sin

**Author's Note:**

> Ready for meaty Garupe y'all?
> 
> Ps: you'll be introduced in the 3rd Chapter ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We know that this story takes place in the 17th century, but it's written in a very standard English. Sorry :p

Candle lights illuminated the exiguous modest space, trembling on the ancient granite walls, and casting long deformed shadows on the poor furniture of father Francisco Garupe’s room. Father Garupe was sitting, fists clenched on his old desk, eyes narrowed as he focused on the cursive writing he seemed to study anxiously.

  


A few hours earlier, and to his big surprise, father Garupe received a personal letter, coming from afar. The sender was a forgotten relative, a cousin, lost of sight long ago. Garupe hid the letter in his habit all day, dreading the moment he might open it, but now that moment had come at last, proving Garupe’s fears right.

  


In a long letter, Garupe’s cousin narrated how her husband had died of an unknown illness, leaving her penniless with three little girls to feed and some cruel –lord forgive them–parents who decided to throw her out in the streets, having spawned no son to perpetuate the lineage. The tone of the letter was hopeless and Garupe could almost hear the cries of despair of his cousin, in a passage where her tears had dampened the crackled paper , and where she begged him to help her, having no one left in the world but him, his distant, but beloved pious cousin. 

  


Garupe closed his eyes and sighed as he finished reading the letter for the third time. He could not sleep that night, as he laid in bed, eyes wide open, a question in his mind. How could a poor priest like him help anyone in the world if not by fervent empathic prayers? That was his job, praying for the poor and the unfortunate people in the world, but how could he write to his poor cousin telling her simply that he prays for her? While she clearly needed money and a roof to protect her from a cruel world that had no mercy for people like her? Her faith and his prayers and sermons, as strong, as sincere as they were, he knew, weren’t what his cousin needed the most, and it was stated clearly, weren’t what she needed _from him_.

  


The next day Garupe woke up feeling the anguish of the previous night, and during all day, he was distracted and mindful. He knew that every hour counted, and that time was pressing. And even as he doubled his prayers and kept on his knees for hours, holding tight to his rosary beads, praying to Mary and St Paula to have mercy on the tormented widow and reciting every pious verse he knew, the persistent feeling of hopelessness stayed with him, like a dark cloud in his heart, and a lump of anxiety knotted in his throat.

But as the day progressed, he felt another thing coming from deep inside him, something he dared not confess to himself, something darker and more dangerous than despair, he knew, it was barely vailed by his luminous faith in the justice of God, but it was there, viscous, waiting patiently for the right moment to overcome the light he was trying so desperately to cover it with and to emerge like a wild demon from the pits of hell.

  


Garupe felt the first drops of tears falling from his eyes as he interrupted his prayers, swallowing his pain. Dry mouth unable to finish his words of faith, he left his eyes wander for a while on the beauty of the basilica he was in. He inhaled a deep whiff of fresh clean air as his eyes took in the attractive ornaments of the walls that he knew too well: colored holy scenes from the bible, majestic marble sculptures of saints and angels. He was being fairly distracted and finding himself carried away with admiration for the professional and skilled works of the artists the church hired and chose carefully to fill its holy buildings with marvels, even though, men of faith had always had little esteem for artists, and Garupe was no exception, being raised by holy men that disapproved strongly of the way of life of the latter.

  


Garupe was lost in his thoughts as his eyes fell on an unfamiliar shape. It was a new sculpture, it seemed, as its marble was bright white, unaffected by the yellowish tone that the passing years painted on the other sculptures. But that wasn’t its only allure. The sculpture, which was of saint Anthony of Padura, was different, Garupe believed, and as he stared and stared, mind now completely absorbed by the beauty of the saint’s soft face features, he remembered fragments of a conversation he caught in the gardens of the cathedral, concerning a new favorite sculptor of the local church and a new commission. He believed hearing the too-easy-to-retain name of Francisco De Luna, a rising talent and skilled new master. As soon as Garupe remembered the name of the master, an impossible idea seduced his mind.

  


Garupe was a man of God, a churchman, a man who took the vow of poverty, among other just as important vows, whose mission was to guide the faithful and to pray for them, to hear confessions and to conduct masses and to help the poor, but he always found ways to get some time for himself, and that time wasn’t wasted on commenting the taste of wines or conversing idly with other priests, no, Garupe always trained and cultivated his body to be firm and in good shape.

His efforts were never motivated by a penchant for luxury and pride as some of his enemies liked to think, but by a simple desire to be healthy and keeping his agility as he climbed the infinite stairs of the church buildings daily. His continuous exercise shaped his body but he never took pride in his perfectly chiseled chest or the firmness of his stomach, he barely noticed his strong arms or the tight muscles of his back, for as he knew too well, those were dangerous thoughts to linger on as they were portals to unnamed seductions. But now, at that very moment and for the first time in his sin-free life, Garupe had thoughts, thoughts that he immediately deemed unworthy of a man of God, but he couldn’t help playing and replaying in his mind.

  


For the first time in his whole life, Garupe thought of using his body for other matters than praying and working. Using the shape of his body as a mean to earn “easy” money. The thought made him shudder in uncontrolled disgust. But it was money he needed and money his helpless cousin needed, a considerable amount of it. It was a serious question, he tried to convince himself, it was forgivable, it was for a noble Christian cause, it wasn’t like prostitution, god forbid, it wasn’t like he was going to pose …nude, no, he shook his head. He would find the sculptor and ask him, beg him if necessary, to take him as a model, as he heard a rumor saying that prestigious ateliers promised fortune for even their simpler models.

Many times he replayed the procedure to follow in his mind, and many times his inner voice raised to sermon him in severe hurtful words. As he stood up from the basilica ground, as he found his fellow priests for the prayers of the day, as he ate his lunch, during the whole day, arguments and counter arguments collided in his head, depriving him from sleep at night and haunting his dreams. 

  


The third day, Garupe woke up with a resolution.

  


He took advantage of a brief rest after the morning prayers, excused himself, pretexting a headache, and sneaked his way out of the church building and into the quiet morning of the city.

  


It was an easy task to find the location of the sculptor’s atelier, as he had quite a reputation. Garupe just had to mention the new commission and the sculptor to Padre Joao, one of his fellow priests known to have a loose mouth, to make the latter spit out all the things he knew about the matter. 

  


With resolute feline movements Garupe traced his way through silent streets and sinuous dead ends, and found himself climbing a slope, hearing only his footsteps on unpolished gravels and his thundering heart beats.

  


Heart pounding in his ears, Garupe stood still before the atelier at last, it seemed like a spacious place, a forged steel portal covered with vines blocked the way to a yard with a small fountain. On the wall was sculpted in beautiful lettering:

  


Francisco De Luna, Sculptor.


	2. The First Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garupe concedes ...

The church bells chimed, announcing Lauds, the dawn prayers. Father Garupe woke up drowning in his sweat .

He reached down his mattress to find the package, still in the same place where he had put it last night.

***

Last morning he was incautious enough to go to the sculptor’s atelier in his clerical robes. What he did was like an act of bravery, as if he wanted to know if his legs could lead him there. And there he went, without any plan in mind, and just stood for minutes, gazing at the surroundings before turning on his heels and hoping that no one saw a black robe prowl in the corner.

Francisco had to think. 

If he wanted to present himself to the sculptor, he had to do it under a false name and in secular clothes. He had to invent a past and a family and a profession and maybe speak in another tone that wouldn’t give him away as a man of God. In short, he had to _lie_.

\- “Francisco!”

Father Rodrigues had to rise his tone a bit louder than necessary, and as it earned him disproval stares from his superiors, his friend was all but ready to listen.

Garupe was fumbling with his spoon and staring at his untouched supper when he deigned to answer.

\- “What?”

\- “Parchment, Garupe, I was asking you for extra parchment!” an irritated Rodrigues hissed.

\- “You can have mine for tonight, I think I am feeling sick today…” Garupe muttered and he excused himself. It was his second lie that day.

But instead of returning to his cell, he slipped in the kitchen through a back door, then into the dorms of the manservants. There, he made quick business of “borrowing” the clothes of one that was about his height and size, following which he almost ran to his room and closed the door behind him, like a _thief_. 

***

Garupe proceeded to his ablutions and fell into step behind the other priests for the prayers of dawn. He prayed with the same devotion and sincerity as always, trying to ignore what he did and what he was about to do. It was something he should be ashamed of, but once he had the money in his hands, he would confess all his sins. He had time and he should help a powerless widow and three little angels that had no sins but to be born women. Weren’t the Jesuit ideals all about linking faith with justice and having special concern for the poor and the oppressed? And wasn’t he following these very values by acting like he did? Garupe felt suddenly thrilled and stayed on his knees till Prime prayers, reinvigorated by a hope so big it made him fly to meet his superior just after the last psalms were recited.

\- Father Garupe, I see you overjoyed this morning, I might attribute your elation to the prayer, I wish. 

Garupe retorted in a tone he wished composed.

\- “Always, your excellence.” Garupe smiled before adding “Pardon me, your excellence, I came to you for a request… Yesterday, I went for a walk after prayers… on my way, I saw a poor family …a deplorable sight… I took pity on them, for as your excellence knows, that’s what Christ would do … and I promised to return today, and to visit them regularly with some … food to meet their needs for a few days … after your permission, of course.”

\- “Good my son, good…” the brows of the bishop knotted for a second and he flexed his jaw, as if to comment something, but then he relaxed as he continued “You might go now, may the holy spirit accompany you in your endeavour.”

Garupe held his breath for many seconds after his encounter with his superior. He couldn’t believe that he could lie so blatantly and repeatedly in a span of a few hours… But he pushed his guilt away for now, as his legs performed lengthy strides and stilled behind a dilapidated wall. He hopped over a barrier and sank into a small but luxuriant wood. There, he quickly changed into secular clothes, kissed his rosary and hid it in a deep pocket of his priest robe before folding it in a sack.

The sun was high in the sky when the priest knocked on the master sculptor’s door. He waited for seconds that felt like hours, mentally prepared to greet an old man, august and condescending, but instead he saw a boy, running through the yard to swiftly open the door, big crooked smile and wide eyes meeting his.

\- “Excellent day milord! please come in”, the boy shouted, bowing and scraping.

Garupe nodded and followed the boy through the yard. The place revealed more of its secrets as he progressed in its depths. The garden, whilst vaster that he thought, wasn’t maintained and looked more like a messy bush, wild flowers and vines that grew past its borders and invaded parts of the yard, climbed the marbles statues, the fountain’s borders, the walls and the roof of an elegant albeit old building, which first floor was framed with tall windows that reflected the sunlight. Garupe was lost in the enchanting beauty of the place as he was pushed inside a fresh gallery that led to a big empty room, solely lit by two windows on the ceiling that scattered liquid squares of light on the floor and illuminated a block of raw marble and a table displaying a variety of sculpting tools, rags and bottles. 

The boy extracted him from his bewilderment when he finally spoke.

\- “ I’m Miguel, Master De Luna’s apprentice, milord, to whom do I have the honor to speak?”

Garupe gasped as the sense of reality caught him again, he swallowed a lump in his throat and spoke as calmly as he could:

\- “Vicente Santos. Servant.“

Garupe couldn’t lie further, as he was indeed in the simple clothes of a low ranked man.

As the boy stayed silent, Garupe added:

\- “I heard you are in search of models…” he lied carefully and was relieved when he saw the boy relax, another wide smile appearing on his juvenile face:

\- “You come in time milord” - the boy continued to address him using the same epithet even after revealing his low rank - “usually we choose them, but my master is about to start a new …particular work, we have one job available milord, if you…” – the boy gave Garupe a prolonged look, up and down, which made him nervous- “… oh but my master should see you first! please wait for me here? milord?“

And the boy slipped away before Garupe could utter a word.

An eternity seemed to pass before the boy appeared again, an eternity where Father Francisco Garupe regretted a thousand times his acts and decisions, but just as he was thinking about running away and abandoning his impossible adventure, the boy reappeared, followed closely by a small frame in …a cloak. A large dark cloak that hid the shape of the master’s body and face …

Garupe narrowed his eyes but, and as to make the task even harder, the master stood in the shadow, where the squares of light couldn’t reach his face. The master stood still, not speaking, not budging, but Garupe felt him staring at him and taking him in with invisible eyes, covered by veils of darkness. Garupe felt a chill run down his spine, and a spontaneous prayer played on his lips as he tried to focus and say something to alleviate the dread that began to take hold on him.

\- “Vicente Santos, master, at your service.” Garupe offered a small bow, "I believe your apprentice informed you of the reasons of my visit."

The Master returned the bow and simply hummed, what Garuped believed was a hum of appreciation.

The boy then spoke again:

\- “My master can’t speak, but with him present here, I can explain to you the details of the job.”

The master nodded as to encourage the boy to continue.

\- “I hope milord here wouldn’t be bothered to pose without clothes on…” the boy coughed, “as my master is about to make a big work of art, a representation of the original man ~~,~~ no less, biblical Adam, milord.” And the boy opened his arms with emphasis as to demonstrate the importance of the work.

Garupe felt the world spin around him as he tried to make sense of what he had just heard. Did he miss something? Clearly not. They were telling him that the only work available was nude modelling!

\- “I beg your pardon, Master” Garupe tried to adjust nervously the sleeves of his shirt. “As it is my first time in the business … I … I’m afraid I’m not comfortable enough…with such ideas.”

\- “Models posing nude are doble paid, milord” the boy cut him off, yelling with enthusiasm, before the master stretched a cloaked hand and led him violently off the room.

The brisk reaction of the master sculptor made Garupe gasp in shock. But as he pulled himself together, he thought God was giving him a second chance to run away. He should, now ~~,~~ or never. He should say no, no matter how much they offered, no matter how strong the temptation would be.

Yes, leave now.

But just as he was about to turn away and disappear, the sculptor and his apprentice showed up again, like evil spirits from the depths of hell. Miguel ran to him and whispered something in his ear, something that made Garupe’s eyes almost roll out of their orbits. And that’s how he knew that he was really being tested.

\- “All… all that, just to strip?”

The master sculptor nodded from his spot in the dusty darkness, and Garupe swallowed thick.

Shall he? Should he? Could he?

Lord, have mercy.

\- “My master thinks that you are the man for the job.” Miguel re-entered the fray again, “I assure you milord, you’ll be a perfect Adam. Just think of your body as a tool, and it is, as you will see, as important for the art as the ones you see on that table. Just look at this block of dead marble. Do you think it’s worth a Real if not polished and worked to imitate life? And do you think it can stand in the most prestigious palaces of this town and arouse admiration and wonder in the eyes of kings and prelates if the very life that inspires it is mediocre?”

\- “Excuse me”, Garupe replied, confused and a bit taken aback by the boy’s words, that seemed all but his. “How… how do you know that I … I would be what you are looking for if you’ve not seen … me yet.” Garupe couldn’t bring himself to mention his body, as tension grew tighter in his stomach. He had never imagined that a day would come when he would have a conversation about the worth of his body with anyone, ever, not even his confessor.

\- “My master here is a connoisseur, and he has _seen_ your face, milord.” The boy smiled, radiant. Garupe couldn’t help but notice the troubling contrast between his words, that were those of a grown adult man, and his facial expressions, that belonged to a no more than twelve year old boy.

\- “How is my face…” Garupe stopped in the middle of his sentence. It was ridiculous, the fact alone that he wasn’t already taking leave, was ridiculous. The fact that he was here trying to discuss things that weren’t even in the realm of possibility for him was absurd. He tried to collect his courage and refuse, leave, return to his prayers and routine and forget about the letter, tuck it away, burn it, pretend he never received it… but Miguel, that little devil, was approaching him again with that big smile and the master’s eyes were so persistent on him, a burning stare he could feel but not see .

\- “Milord, what had brought you here to model ~~,~~ is, I assume, a scarcity of money, and here my master is bidding you plenty of it just to strip of a few clothes, which, my master believes, is a very generous offer.”

\- “It is, a very generous offer indeed”, Garupe found himself muttering. “But…“

\- “Just a try, milord, I assure you, you will not regret it, let me help you, think of all the possibilities, do you have a family to feed, maybe a beautiful wife that you want to please? Or maybe parents that are in need?”

Garupe shook his head… Parents in need.

\- “Fine! I will! I will.” He didn’t know, maybe another man shouted those words because what Father Francisco Garupe wanted now ~~,~~ was to be buried six feet deep, that was better than the disgrace he managed to become in such a short timeframe.

In the worst case, Garupe thought, chasing away his guilt, he could take the money that the master would give him today and never return again. But deep inside, the stubborn priest refused to accept that all he had done till now, all the risks he had been taking would come to nothing, that all the sins (and they were aggravated in his mind), would have been committed to no end at all. That would make them worse in his eyes, and he was sure, in God’s eyes too. 

\- “I will.”

His voice was his that time, resolute and determined as he started to work on his vest’s buttons, carefully avoiding the two pairs of eyes that were avidly waiting, like for the doors of Heaven to open.


	3. Sins of the Eye

You looked at yourself in the mirror, you looked thoroughly. You looked at your rosy cheeks, at the smooth curves of your body, at the glow in your eyes and at the luxuriant waves of your hair. You looked at youth and beauty, and sighed. It had been a long time, a long time since you had felt anything close to what you were feeling right now.

A long time since you’d felt that tug in your heart and in your belly. A long time since you’d experienced those pins and needles on the tips of your fingers, begging you to work, to shape, to curve, to mold, to …touch.

But there was more to it, more than the mere anticipation that every new work brings. You knew. It was strange and familiar at the same time, that song in your heart, those whispers of a new promise that you tried to silence, that keenness that gleamed through you. It was vain to try and hide it from yourself, as it was there since you’d laid eyes on…him.

Him, that the wheel of destiny had thrown at your door. Who was he, that wonder of a man, too serious, all thoughtful brows, so reserved and …shy. A simple servant? It was hard to believe. His manners were all but those you were used to observe in servants, he had something of nobility in his demeanor, a nobility coming from education rather than lineage, you thought.

You picked your comb and started to do your hair, you put on your most sultry night gown, you perfumed your skin with rose water, then looked at yourself again, only to see a morose face staring back at you. For whom you were doing this? For the idea of him in your head? For a man you couldn’t even speak to? For a man who might think you were some deformed creature under a horrid black cloak you were obliged to wear to work?

You had seen the look in his eyes, the barely veiled horror in his gorgeous honeyed irises at the sight of you in that cloak. The cloak of shame that the social order obliged you to wear, that traditions wrapped around your body, that _church_ …

Curses escaped your lips, as you threw yourself in your bed, and tossed and turned in your crimson satin sheets, those that were made to welcome a lover, not a lonely, sad and longing maiden. You closed your eyes and immediately, the shape of him materialized under your lashes. You were only through the fourth session of modelling, but you could recreate in your mind every curve of his body, every swell of veins in his strong arms. Your imagination caressed the constellations of beauty marks on his face as you mentally let your fingers trace their path down his incredibly broad chest…Your thoughts dwelled on the curves of his hips, down, down with your hands on your body and you bit you lips as a whimper escaped your throat.

And you couldn’t even talk to him. You couldn’t even speak, let him hear the sound of your voice, and hope it would make him feel the things you felt when you heard his.

You cursed your luck, you cursed life and you cursed traditions, oh but you reserved your most venomous expletives for the church. The church that made sure that every second of your existence was a living hell, a pursuit of survival, an infernal version of hide and seek.

The church that made of you an orphan too soon, the church and its hordes of black vultures, that wouldn’t hesitate to rip your flesh apart if they knew, if they only knew that their new favorite artist was a woman, that the one who fills their minsters with sparkling shapes of their saints and angels was the daughter of a man they killed for apostasy. You revelled perversely in that idea, every time a commission letter came out from the folds of a prelate’s robe, every time a new statue stood in the halls of a prelate’s palace or when an angel decorated the columns of a cathedral, you rejoiced in the fact that in each of them were carved, subtly but there, the most hideous insults, the grossest words of apostasy and blasphemy against the divine authority they claimed to represent.

You put on a robe and hurtled down the stairs to your atelier. You lit the torches and unveiled the marble block that was still barely shaped. Under the dim orange light, it glowed almost with the tones of his skin.

You had agreed with him to meet twice a week, one session early in the morning, one at an odd hour of the night. When Miguel asked, he simply explained that his master wouldn’t allow him to be absent during work time and that the fact that he was allowed these hours was already a lenient indulgence.

You agreed to his terms, he was already enclosing his grip on you, for reasons you couldn’t put a finger on at the time. Maybe it was his nervousness, his obvious shyness and discomfort as his hands fumbled with the laces of his shirt and worked on his slacks, his long and thick fingers ~~,~~ fidgeting with every little obstacle as if he had never done it in front of anybody, as if that massive man, all muscles and beautiful curves, like a ripe fruit ready to be bitten, was …a virgin. Just like the original man. Adam before Eve, innocent yet tortured, restless in a loneliness he couldn’t name.

You hadn’t expected him to return after that first day. You had lured him using money that he seemed very much in need of. You were determined to not let him out of your doorstep before seeing him, all of him. The mere raw masculinity his face was exuding was enough to make you curious about the rest, and you had never been more right in your entire life. You trusted your eye.

You couldn’t control your panic when you felt him refusing your offer at first. You couldn’t stop your hand as it flew, leading Miguel to the hall adjacent to the room, as you violented his poor frail shoulders.

“Just do what I tell you, Miguel, beg him if it’s necessary. I WANT HIM !” you almost yelled, “you know how you should talk or do I have to teach you again ?”

You couldn’t let him slip through your fingers, that man who later, soon later, would haunt your dreams, asleep or awake.

But he returned; he took the money and he returned. You smiled when you saw him for the first session. Money is always a very convincing motivator, you thought.

Then two weeks passed, two weeks of silence and study, two weeks during which you saw him grow a bit comfortable, yet always fearful, eyes desperately scrutinizing, restless jaw, agitated hands. He knew you couldn’t speak, Miguel wasn’t precise though. When he returned, he told him not to go against your rules and he nodded; he had seemed docile then, always responsive to your silent instructions.

You told him to keep a cloth on his private parts the first time, to not scare him away. It was going to be a long session and as you helped him getting in the position you wanted him to take, you felt his shivers when your hands lightly touched his body to change an arm’s position, to relax a muscle, or to bring his face to face the light. You took your time sketching him on paper to get used to the proportions of his body and to choose the right angle, the right position you wanted him in. 

You felt his eyes on you all the time yours were on your papers. He wanted to see you, you could tell, he wanted to know who you were, he wanted to put a face on the mute gloomy shape you were for him and oh how much you wanted the same. It had never occurred before. Gorgeous men and women came and went by your atelier, models of grand beauty, but nobody had ever provoked that deep curiosity and abysmal _desire_ in you before. No one. They were merely tools, beautiful tools, but summed up in shapes and forms, nothing you wanted to know and explore.

"Can I keep the cloth on when … when you are not working on that area?"

You heard his deep, low but uncertain voice asking you the third time you saw him.

It was his sole request, and you nodded half-heartedly, you didn’t want to leave any part of him covered. You couldn’t take him to bed, you couldn’t even speak, but at least you could let your eyes feast on his shape and save it for your night fantasies. You felt a bit ashamed sometimes, as you thought that maybe the poor man had a wife, or a lover, and that he was completely unaware of your desire for him.

Sometimes, you let the most foolish ideas play with the strings of your heart, sometimes, in your daydreams, you exposed your face to him, offering yourself to him, leading him through galleries to you room, pushing him into the crimson sheets and kissing him senseless, and worshiping every inch of his luscious body. Your passion ran deep and hot very fast, and you couldn’t even try and listen to reason as its flames consumed every bit of you, and started to creep into your work hours, leaving you shaking with want in his presence.

*

“I came to confess, father.”

Garupe breathed the words to father Raoul.

Francisco knew that sins came in chains. That once a string of those chains was commenced, others would follow. All throughout his learning years, sins were at the center of teachings, sermons and prayers, and he thought he knew all the secret breaches from where lures of sins penetrated, he thought he knew himself and he thought he could always fill those breaches with the love of God.

Pride. That was only pride.

Because, not only was he wrong, but he let himself be seduced. And here he found himself lying without blinking, every time he had to excuse himself after prime prayers, and before Matins, sneaking out at night to join the master’s sculptor atelier.

His actions of the past two weeks flashed before his eyes as he struggled with the words, a thin veil of black velvet separating him from father Raoul, an elder priest he held in high esteem.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned.” He expelled in a voice he didn’t recognize.

“I’ve been distracted during my prayers, impatient with my brothers and negligent of my duties.”

Garupe swallowed. He came with the resolute intention to speak, to alleviate the torture of a soiled heart, to seek repentance. Still, he couldn’t. His tongue was knotted and his throat dry.

“Is that all, father?”

“Yes, Father.” He lied.

“Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.”

“For His mercy endures forever.”

_….and I firmly purpose by Thy holy grace never more to offend Thee._

An hour later, Francisco was on his knees for contrition prayer, and as he recited the words that he knew by heart, his soul was blank. It was ironic, he almost wanted to laugh at himself. His anger was now unveiled, that dark feeling creeping in the shadows of his heart, was unleashed and free. And as he sensed its dark waves choking his heart, boiling the blood in his veins, he didn’t know to whom he directed it, was it against himself or against god ? he knew ~~,~~ the later answer was the dangerous one, the unacceptable one, and he couldn’t seek relief in the quiet soft talking of Rodrigues this time. The blameless Rodrigues always had something good to say, always the right words, he was a good Jesuit. Garupe was not, he thought, his bitterness swelling, adding to his frustration.

Why did he return?

He could have taken the money and left, send it to his cousin and supply with prayers and tell her that was all a poor priest like him could give. It could have been enough.

Yes, the money he earned for just ..taking his clothes off. A disgrace.

He couldn’t accept the idea.

Pride, again.

Still, if he posed for a real work of art, that could be a feeble consolation, he thought.

And in a deep hidden corner of his mind, a question was barely there, or rather questions, merging together.

Adam? Him as Adam? Father of all men and …first sinner.

He could still remember the words of praise that fell from Miguel’s mouth, about how his master was very satisfied with what he saw, about how perfect an Adam he would make. And Garupe hadn’t had much time to dwell on it. But now, he couldn’t help questioning; He, who never looked in the mirror for longer than what his morning ablutions required, who never thought about his appearance in any flattering words, who, as far as he remembered, the last comment he heard about his face, was about how his ears were too big and… disgraceful.

But above all his news torments, the identity of the master sculptor was the most prevalent.

That Master Sculptor who, more than an artist, resembled a member of an occult sect. Hadn’t he heard before that some artists were Satans’s worshipers? Versed in occultism and alchemy? Or at least sympathizers of practitioners?

He had observed the master intently, seeking for any indicators, trying to pierce the mystery. It was convenient for him that the master was unable to speak, it meant discretion, it meant safety; and he wasn’t by any means interested in people he was going to work with. The less he talked, the better it was for him. But as the sessions multiplied, he found himself growing …frustrated. Maybe it was the nerves, he thought, the nervousness of two restless weeks looping in his stomach. Fear too, of being recognized, debunked and ultimately …excommunicated. 

On the last session, he spoke to the master. He found himself trying to entice a reaction, a movement , something that would reveal anything of the dark, silent figure that remained persistently in the shadows. It was almost scary how the master worked without wasting time, without leaving any movement to coincidence, how he was so agile and careful. The master couldn’t speak, that’s what Miguel had said, but what did that mean? That he couldn’t speak to him? Or that he was mute? And why was he hiding himself? Could he be so hideous that his models would flee if they ever saw a glimpse of him? Or was this just artist vagaries?

Francisco had to find out.

So Francisco returned, and for that fifth time, with one thought in mind: discover the identity of the Master.


	4. A Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garupe wanted to know, and Garupe knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We chose a name for you. A beautiful one, we hope ;)

“ Your hand work is very precise”

Francisco talked more, he tried compliments, comments about the atelier, the garden flowers and the weather. He even invented, making up details about his daily routine as a servant.

But his attempts to entice more than a hum or a head bow were all infructuous.

“I’ve seen some pieces of art in my life.” He tried to enter the subject of art now, thinking that might be the only interesting matter in the sculptor’s eyes. “I’ve worked in places, changed masters, and seen things… but your work stands out in many aspects…” he paused.

The whistle of the birds, the trickling of water were his only answers. 

The master sculptor continued working, with the same dexterity and precision, wiping up the marble with wet rags every time white dusting collected on the cracks he opened with his sculpting tools on the rough block.

“Your technique…” Garupe trailed his words, trying to make them linger in the air and watch the body language of the artist, for a sign, any sign. ”your touch… is very delicate on the marble, it has something… feminine. I mean, I mean… it in a good way, in the grace and -”

Thud.

Garupe jumped from his sitting position, startled. It was just the chisel falling from the master’s hand and landing on the cold stone tiles.

“Can I help you with that?” Garupe stooped, his hand reaching for the tool, mirroring the movement of the master, who quickly, swiftly, with a rusting of fabric, picked it up, fingers lightly brushing those of the priest, just for a second. They were soft, Francisco noticed, the master was young, if it was to judge by the suppleness of his movements and now by the softness of his fingertips.

The master was never clumsy.

_It must be something I said_ , Garupe thought.

And maybe the sign he was looking for. But what ?

What?

Francisco decided to push further. He felt he was near enough, near enough from a reality he started to suspect.

His mind traveled back to his first session. The touch of the master sculptor, the touch on his body, when he tried to position him, the very first time. The sweet feeling that made his body shudder in a sensation he had never known before… that provoked by gentle fingers pads, just brushing his skin, the smoothness of it all. He shook his head. An idea he couldn’t articulate bloomed in his mind, filling it with terror and disbelief. 

The air became somewhat thicker after the little incident as silence fell between them, and Francisco’s babbling quieted. The master seemed to collect himself, features unreadable in the shadows, but Garupe could swear he saw him trembling in his cloak, as he lined up his tools in their boxes on the table and covered the marble shape, signifying that the session was reaching its end.

What?

Could it be…?

Garupe mind’s still worked as he reached for his clothes, trying to overcome the burning twinge nagging in his head, urging him to know, now. He hesitated, folding them in his hand, frowning to them, then he turned his head, peeking under his shoulder maybe to make sure that the master was still there, or to try and catch a last glimpse as to disconfirm his doubts. And he was, the sculptor stood there, facing him, the cloak hood floating around a face, eyes glistening with orange fire, for a second, a stare that seemed to devour him…roaming his naked back before sliding back in the shadows, but at that time, it was too late. 

Francisco turned with all his body now, discarding his cloths on the floor. Bare feet advancing led by dread and anticipation, growing with each silent step. The sculptor didn’t flinch, not even when Francisco stopped just inches away from him, breathing and waiting, giving time or asking for permission, nor did he recoil when the priest bent his big shoulders to look beyond the veils of darkness, opening for him. 

« you are a woman »

Garupe said matter of factly, voice blank and low and deep as his brown honey eyes bored into yours, into the secret they hid for years, under the veils of shame.

“You are a woman” he whispered as the realization sank deeper, emotions starting to reel in him. His eyes couldn’t look away, as they tried to take it all in at the same time, your features, the impossibly soft feminine shape and curves of your face, of your hair, at first with disbelief, as if to seek a mistake somewhere. But there was no mistake; you were a woman, _frightfully_ so.

His hands still light on the folds of your hood, body bare, gently caressed by the black pleats of your large cloak as his shoulders curved to meet your height, your ragged breaths fanning his dark locks. It felt oddly intimate, wrongly intimate, and Francisco found himself watching the scene from outside his body. An outer body experience. Seconds passed before he realized the horror of his situation.

_Merciful god, a woman_ _!_

Your feet couldn’t obey your command when he had stepped closer, nor when he reached for the tip of your hood, a grace in his careful steps, like that of a hunter approaching a doe. Something about the silence, something about the fresh summer breeze as the last hours of the night exhaled their rich scents, something in the trembling faint torchlight on the angles of his face and his eyes, pits of darkness and liquid honey. That “something” stilled you in place, dreading, waiting… wanting. Then he was crowding your space, his fingers pulling on your hood as yours remained paralyzed. You could not see that he was as afraid as you were, as frightened and as terrified and as overwhelmed, you couldn’t know, as his fingers pushed the hood away, the fabric slowly inching down and falling on your shoulders, along with your last defenses, liberating your luxurious curls and a gasp from your lips.

Your half heartedly kept secret was out now and you couldn’t deny your relief, despite the thick tension that settled between you. It was if as he hadn’t been able to bear the suspicion, as if he had needed to expose you, almost against his will. But you had dreamed of this, of showing yourself to him, and now you finally felt seen, really seen.

Your gaze was on his again, as silence lingered between pounding hearts, tattered shreds of reality and bewilderment.

“ Vicente…”

It was merely a sigh.

The first thing you wanted to say was his name. The first thing you wanted him to hear was his name.

_Francisco_

He corrected mentally, already feeling a pain he couldn’t place or comprehend from hearing another’s man name coming from your … _oh_ so inviting lips. 

But it was there for merely seconds, before the crushing reality hit him again, and he was jumping back, stumbling to cover himself, all muscles and force twirling in the space, on the verge of tearing your whole atelier apart in his attempts to undo his nudity. It left you wide eyed for a moment before you could speak again.

“ It’s useless now…” your tone was half amused, half resigned. A sense of loss slowly invaded you as you watched him cover up, and it was what you had feared all along.

“Who _are you_?”

It hurt. The tone of his voice hurt you, already accusative, angry, red flames blazing from his gorgeous eyes, as he fumbled with his slacks and abandoned on trying to put his shirt on, throwing it aside.

“As you can see with your own eyes, sir, _I am_ a master sc—“ You wanted to appear firm and unfazed, stating the obvious.

“ All this time!” he spit out in disbelief, anger not leaving him as his hands trembled, finding support on your table that creaked under his weight.

Silence again.

Father Garupe tried to calm down. Wrath, wrath was a sin, but nothing in the whole situation was _Christian_ enough to make him think in his priest logics, for the entirety of his actions bore the marks of sin, lately.

He had wanted to know and now he knew, he knew and he was …relieved, even, pleased with what his eyes saw. Even if he tried to push that thought away, for now.

_Don’t look at her, don’t look at her anymore._ But his eyes stayed locked on yours and yours turned sad, disappointed and angry at last .

“ What can _a man_ understand in all this…” you gestured to yourself and to your surrounding, voice cracking at the last word.

“ You _lied_!” he screamed, his strong voice reverberating in the empty space, ricocheting on the walls and coming back to you, as a tear rolled down your cheek.

“ What difference does that make? Does it me less of an artist? Or did your man sensibilities get hurt? Because you stripped off in front of a woman?” your voice was trembling now, eyes watering, reducing your vision of him to a foggy figure, as your anger and pain boiled in your heart.

“ YES!” he shouted, jaw tensing.

He regretted it as soon as the word left his mouth. 

But he was not lying. Yes, it troubled him more than he thought it would. The man he was was angry because he was lied to and the priest he was was fuming because, now, another sin was added to the others, because his modesty and chastity had been affected too, eventually leaving him almost empty handed, holding on to nothing, all his vows had been broken, trampled on.

A sense of helplessness invaded him then. his shoulders falling, his back curling on itself, all anger leaving him, as he saw your face ravaged by tears, an unbearable look of hurt in your beautiful eyes, deep and cutting, slicing his man’s and priest’s heart. 

What had he done?

He felt as if he was at his confessional duties, rejecting a sinner after he had poured his whole heart out between his hands, waiting, expecting absolution, forgiveness and understanding.

But was she expecting the same when she let him expose her? What was she expecting?

Francisco was no fool. He knew that _you let_ him.

But why?

“Y..es?” he heard your shattered voice, interrupting the train of his racing thoughts. A whisper of agony that made his heart break and flutter at the same time.

“I… didn’t… please… I didn’t mean-“

“No you did.” You shook your head, resigned, swallowing your tears.

“You are a good artist, you are, I didn’t mean that part …I really didn’t” his voice was soft now, a priest in confession duties. Soft and thick with guilt.

“you are better than many… men artists I’ve had the occasion to see at work…” He felt himself in duty to appease her now “tell me your name, child.” He found himself asking. A priest habit, anchored deep, he didn’t even notice how it slipped off his mouth.

Child…

_Child?_

If only that was said in other circumstances… You shook your head, it wasn’t time to remember how he made you feel, how he still makes you feel. Even then, when you were considering kicking him out of your atelier at any second.

“Is that how you call every woman you meet? Are we all underage for you, wise, grown up man?” you retorted, voice resounding with venom and sarcasm. 

His mistake was apparently making things worse, worse and heading to irrevocable.

“ NO!. no.no.no. please listen… I…” he was rummaging through his head, searching for a lie, any lie, another lie, to make this stop. Garupe was not accustomed to conflicts, his priest life requiring obedience and a lot of composure and forgiveness, still he couldn’t believe that he was the one apologizing now.

“I have sisters, many little sisters, I call them this, all the time, sisters I dearly love and cherish, and no, I’m not accustomed to women’s company, besides them, if that’s what you‘re insinuating” He felt the burning need to justify himself, the veiled accusation stinging nonetheless.

You seemed to calm down, even a bit ashamed, as you looked down and he exhaled, relieved.

“ I could never, never, prove anything if I told any of them who I am”

You let your weight fall on a chair, muscles exhausted of tensing up. Anger was a tiring exercise.

“they wouldn’t even let me try” your avoided his gaze as you talked, voice low and calmed now.

“ they wouldn’t” he agreed. He knew they wouldn’t. He never thought about …about the injustice of it, never deemed it as his center of concern, the fact that women weren’t allowed to teach, they weren’t allowed to do any men work… It was what the bible said, so it had to be right, right? But as he saw you now, this accomplished, talented artist, sitting in front of him, your small female figure sitting beside this raw, hard block of marble, making it… alive, he couldn’t help but think that God, you didn’t deserve to live in the shadow of who you were, to pay such a big price… to renounce to life and acknowledgment… and you were so young, and you were…God, you were beautiful. He shut down the gearwheels in his mind as he felt his thoughts racing to dangerous territories.

But now you were stepping near him, close, closer… and he didn’t know when you made your way to him, lost in his thoughts as he was, his breath caught in his lungs seeing your face, ignited by hope, your cheeks red and eyes wide, fresh tears still forming in their corners, sublimed by the dim light, as torch flames sizzled and crackled.

“Clarissa” you extended a soft small hand and he reached down to take it, maybe too fast, he thought.

“Clarissa” he repeated as his hand eclipsed yours, and your world fell apart.


	5. A little Devil and an Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big man Garupe will have a small confrontation with little guy Miguel !

“Then the Lord God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, -“

You recited the bible, blowing a slow breath on the white crevice you shaped on the curve of a marbled nostril, while looking at him, playful.

“…and the man became a living creature.” He completed, refined priest, always ready to reply with verses.

You had established a fragile familiarity throughout the last few sessions with “Vicente”. Slowly exploring each other’s character, both moths drawn to the flame of your attraction to each other but too cautious to burn your fragile wings if you let it consume you. 

You gave him an admirative look, that faded slowly to suspicious as he averted his eyes again.

“You seem to know your bible, sir” you laughed.

“Pious man, I see” you added when your model didn’t reply, a frown gracing his beautiful brows, it was maddening. The sight in front of you was maddening, his muscular, graceful shape sitting on a rock, white linen cloth loosely thrown on his manhood, barely covering his thighs as light danced on his skin, seemed to kiss his flesh warmly.

“You seem equally knowledgeable –“

You puffed a mocking laugh, that earned you a deeper frown.

“I have my special reasons…“ you simply said, careful not to give away too much too soon.

“Would you enlighten an ignorant man?” Francisco was outdoing himself, he who had never had a private conversation with a lady before, let alone with a young beautiful one, that seemed to not waste a chance of displaying a plump cleavage for his eyes, more and more emboldened, despite his miserable self.

You stilled, brought your pointed chisel to your lip, faking thought.

“Who was Adam to you, my dear Vicente? I’m always interested in knowing my models’ point of view” you lied.

Francisco blushed, trying to focus. He didn’t have to think too much, as his idea was already shaped, solid as stone.

“The first man, father of all men, and… the first sinner” He added, the weight of his faults hidden under his detached tone.

“hum” you smiled.

“Adam was a _thinker_ , the first thinker.” You resumed your work, carefully curling the point of your tool in the insides of the marble crevice.

Francisco was silent for a moment as he assessed your reply. He definitely knew that he was in the presence of an unconventional woman, but now he was starting to believe that that woman was also… a skeptical?

“Would you, please, …give me more insight…?” he narrowed his eyes, and shifted in his position, investigating, forgetting his purpose.

“Gladly” you smiled brightly, cleaning your hands on your work dress, making it slide higher up your legs, and Francisco’s eyes fell instantly on the newly exposed flesh, and he suppressed a gulp.

Now that you shared your secret with him, you went through your sessions lighthearted and unveiled.

You couldn’t wear all the silk and lace and satin you wanted him to see, but you made sure to be garbed in your work dress, the one you wore when alone in your atelier, a light one, leaving the first buttons of your corset open, revealing the fresh swell of your breasts. You did your hair so that it cascaded sensually on your shoulders, rebel strands caressing your face. You didn’t forget to wear perfume, a hint too much? Maybe, you shrugged when you saw your reflection in the mirror, a radiant smile gracing your lips this time.

“Do you think Adam ate the apple without doing a little bit of thinking? Just because Eve _tempted_ him, used her _charms on him_?” –you rolled your eyes at the thought— “Or maybe he wanted company just because he woke up one day and felt lonely?” You spoke low, in a tone of confidence, and you noticed with delight how Francisco’s ears heated.

Francisco’s heart looped in his stomach. The woman was blasphemous. How dare she? How dare she question the bible’s telling? How dare she, above all, be so confident and poised about it? Anger heated in his blood for a moment, as his jaw worked a pointed answer, but he then softened. Was it sadness that invaded him suddenly? Or was it compassion? Francisco felt something warmer, maybe weaker than sadness and stronger than compassion, stronger than his anger with you, was it longing? A feeling between wanting and not wanting? He schooled his face, judged better not to dwell on it. 

Silence lingered.

“Why did you let me?” He questioned at last, betraying his train of thoughts, nonetheless. 

“Let you?” You didn’t expect this question. It took you aback, avoiding the former subject. 

“Yes, you let me. I can’t believe it was an accident. What I mean… is that you succeeded to keep your secret away from the world for… years? How many people did you receive in here? During all this time?” His tone betrayed a hint of distrust that he corrected quickly “They… any one could have known, but I saw you, you are a real master of disguise.” he smiled. And then, when he noticed your unease, he pushed gently; “Clarissa? Tell me”. His voice deepened and softened as these last words left his lips, and something in you trembled and burned, very deep.

_his voice._

“You are not like them.” You swallowed, faking composure.

“How could you know.. “

_If only you knew._

“I wanted to take a risk… I guess. I was tired…” You started shyly. “No… I… I wanted you to be different.” you smiled a little and looked at him with confidence as you exhaled a deep breath. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling back, mirroring your expression, amazed by your sincerity. 

Yes, you wanted him to be different. You wanted to give him a chance, and give a chance to yourself. You had been in love before, and you had been loved, or at least, that’s what you thought. You were so much younger and naive. You fell in the arms of a treacherous lover, older than you, Captain of the Guards, a beautiful but so arrogant a man, volatile and cunning. He fogged your head with deceitful words and promises just to toss you away like dirt once he took your innocence and all the love you could give. He left you broken and blank and even if your good-natured heart learned to live and laugh again, it could never feel the gentle tug of that sweet heady feeling, that special sensation deep in your heart and core with any other man. You took lovers after him, just played the game and never allowed any feeling to seep into your cracked soul again. They were all artists, they shared pleasurable time with you and entertained amicable relations with you even when it was over, and you were thankful for the easy and diverting life you were leading, well, until he knocked at your door…

To you, “Vicente” seemed unlike anyone. He looked noble, with a sober character, a stoicism in his manners that you missed in men of your company. Maybe too conventional, to your dismay, but smart and educated. You wanted to know everything about his life. You couldn’t imagine a man like him being a simple servant all his life.

Maybe he lied, you thought.

Why didn’t you think of it earlier? Some of your models presented themselves under false names to protect their privacy, it was common practice. Some were noblemen and women, sons and daughters of rich notable people of the city, and even when they hid their identity, you ended up knowing. Miguel being the little nosy devil he was, he would go and bring you information you never asked for. This time, though, Miguel didn’t seem interested in helping you at all. He just hummed, uninterested. Vicente seemed just like any other servant to him, and he was indeed one, absolutely nothing worth digging for, boring. You found his lack of enthusiasm for the new comer unlike himself, but you just believed him, there was no reason he would lie to you, after all.

*

“Dear god! you look like a brothel madam!“ Miguel exclaimed earlier that morning, incapable of holding his laugh, while you were preparing yourself in front of your mirror.

“You devil! You spying?! Come here!” you laughed back, caught him by his collar, tussling his hair as both of you lost balance and rolled together on the floor.

“I’m so happy, Miguel” you sighed once you regained your breath.

“So am I, my Clarissa” he snuggled his skinny frame into yours and sighed, before looking you in the eyes, a worried shadow covering his eyes “But please… be careful”

You frowned.

“Look who’s giving me advice, my little spy” you pinched his chin. You brushed away the worried expression that didn’t leave his face at your pleasantry, deeming it to his knowledge of your past mistakes.

“Clarissa?” Miguel asked at your door gate as you resumed arranging your hair.

“Hum?” you beamed at him

“Nothing, er…maybe I should go and buy some butter? We are still receiving tomorrow evening?”

“Yes, yes, of course”

And like that, he left in a hurry and you heard his light footsteps running down the granite staircase.

Miguel’s heart was racing as he waited in front of your front door. Of course, he was going to buy butter for tomorrow’s dinner, but before that, he had one thing to do.

Francisco saw Miguel’s familiar silhouette waiting for something, or someone, in front of the atelier’s door. The boy had a habit to stroll around, busy chasing after birds and frogs; Francisco smiled, ready to greet him, but Miguel didn’t seem to return the courtesy. Instead, his eyes sparkled with something severe as he puffed his frail chest.

“Miguel!” Francisco started, stretching one big hand to pat the boy’s hair, but Miguel recoiled from his touch, frowning.

“Why are you still lying to her?” He shouted, voice barely that of a teen, but the words were enough to freeze the blood in Francisco’s veins.

Francisco’s heart leaped in his chest as his hands gripped the gate’s cool iron to ground him.

“Wha…”

“You know what I am talking about here, I know.” Miguel stood his ground.

“What do you know boy?” Francisco couldn’t let a boy intimidate him, so he straightened, full length facing the little being, but Miguel didn’t seem to flinch. Francisco couldn’t help but admire his courage.

“I see how you look at her! and I know you are lying to her! so if you can’t be with her, why are you still coming? Why are you here?”

“You don’t know anything, what are you even trying to tell me?”

“I know you secrets, priest!”

Garupe’s hands were sweating now, barely standing as he felt his whole life going down a black vortex. He must do something. Anything. He grabbed the boy’s sleeve and pulled him to a corner down the road.

Miguel started to yell but Garupe’s big hand blocked his mouth as the other hand kept him in an iron grip.

“Shhh! Miguel, listen to me, I will not hurt you, listen to me!” But the boy tried to bite the priest’s hand, that only tightened on his small face.

“Leehht mmm goh! Mmmmghh”

“Miguel! listen! I don’t want to harm you, and I don’t want to harm her, especially not her” Francisco desperately tried to explain, and Miguel seemed to see some truth in the priest’s eyes, because his taut muscles suddenly loosened up, pressure leaving them as calm regained him, ready to listen to whatever the priest wanted him to know.

He saw how you and Garupe were dancing around each other. He knew about your growing affection for him and he discerned the heated looks he was giving you when you didn’t pay attention… and the looks _you_ were giving him, him paying attention or not. He was knowledgeable of your feelings, knowing you well. What he couldn’t know, were the intentions of “Vicente”, and he was resolved to clear out the matter with him, now.

Being his nosy self, he followed Francisco. The newcomer couldn’t escape Miguel’s tradition after all. As the priest regained his church, he was none the wiser of the small shadow following behind, feather light steps in the blemished darkness of the first hours of dawn.

Miguel lived with that knowledge for weeks, battling with himself over whether he should tell you or not. Smart as he was, he calculated the risks and implications of such discovery. He kept silent, relatively reassured by the fact that you would never take a step and unveil yourself for any of your models. Never, he was sure, even when he saw you visibly falling for that one, every day growing obsessed, not even trying to hide it from him. But now he was panicking. You might be falling into a big trap, you were unaware of it, but he knew, and he was more than determined to protect you, with all his small, punny self.

Miguel took in a deep breath, as Francisco let go of his mouth.

“What are your intentions? Priest?”

It didn’t go unnoticed, the manner he spoke the word “priest”, pejorative and disdainful. Garupe tried to ignore his frustration and anger, as he narrated the complete story to a round eyed Miguel.

They were both sitting on a nearby bench now, Miguel twisting a leaf between his skinny fingers.

“So… how do I know you are telling the truth? How can I be sure this is not a scheme of the church? To bring my master down? Because that’s what it seems to me!”

“No. No, no, no, no, a scheme?” Garupe panicked. From where Miguel fished such mature ideas, would never stop to amaze him. “The church has nothing to do in this matter! It’s me. It’s just me, and I’m a simple priest, no one else is involved. I swear to God…. to you, no one else knows your master’s identity besides me, and you. And no one ever will. Priest’s word”

To that Miguel laughed, a boyish toothy laugh.

“Priest’s word”

“What is that so funny now, boy” impatience was clear in his tone.

“For a priest, you seem fairly enamored” Miguel smirked, mischief sparkling in his beautiful green eyes.

Francisco blushed violently. He couldn’t believe the way he was being played by a child. He gulped, trying to school his expression into something… respectable.

“If helping you cousin is the reason of you being here, then why are you courting my master, treacherous priest?!” Miguel continued without letting Graupe place a word.

“ Cour… I am not! Watch your language b-“

“Yes! You are!” Miguel stared, and Francisco stared back. Several seconds passed and Garupe wondered if he was entering a staring contest with a boy.

“Do you love her?” Miguel asked, soft. Francisco had never seen deeper eyes on a boy’s face.

Did he? Francisco didn’t know yet. What he knew is how his body reacted in your presence, how warmth spread through him whenever he was with you. He wasn’t familiar with this kind of feelings, how was he supposed to answer? Was it love? Or attraction? Or just mere lust? He couldn’t know. He was ignorant of the heart’s matters. 

“Would you tell her?” He asked back, as the tacit answer sank deep between them.

“Not if you will. Priests don’t take wives, I know that even if you want to, you can not. Don’t break her heart. Tell her.”

“ I will.” Garupe sighed.

“ Promise me” Miguel insisted

“ I will! when it’s appropriate, I will”

To that, Miguel stood up, stretched his arms, and in an unexpected movement, he stepped on the priest’s foot and run away.

“Fuu- Holy Graal!” Garupe shouted in pain.

“I will keep an eye on you! Priest!” Miguel shouted back, as his lean legs hurtled down the street.

Francisco replayed that encounter in his head while he was dressing after the session came to an end, lost in his thoughts as you approached him.

Your hopes were that he would accept your invitation for the dinner you were holding the next day, and you were determined to get a positive answer.

“Vicente” You spoke softly as your fingers traced lightly his still naked back, making him gasp. You were destroying the little restrain he tried to preserve lately with you. Those little touches, now and then, always coming when never expected, making blood rush to inappropriate places of his body. Were you a witch?

He remembered the promise he made to Miguel.

He stepped back, in an effort to impose some distance between your bodies, when every inch of him wanted just the opposite thing. To surrender, to give in, to let your touch linger and wait for you to take more. But he couldn’t and Miguel’s words weren’t the sole reason. How many times had he tried to remind himself that he was a man of God? He seemed to forget who he was every time he stepped into your little corner of heaven. It was something about the silence, the peace of the garden, the gentle splash of the fountain water and the quiet concentration in your beautiful face, while you worked your marble.

Your face fell a little at his obvious rebuff. You had been growing impatient. You had tried all your tricks to make the shy man open up to you, and even if you had been given positive indications in the way he looked at you, you couldn’t get him to act on it. You thought that it would be the matter of a session or two before you could make him yours, but the man was stubborn, for god knows which reasons! Piety? For he wasn’t married, as he told you… But now that you started to suspect he was lying to you, you couldn’t be sure anymore. But what pious man would pose naked, and for a woman?!

That tall mystery of a man was driving you crazy, making you none the less more determined to break the ice of his fortress.

“So I am giving a dinner tomorrow evening” You tried your softest tone “…and I thought, since you are in the confidence of my secret now, that you might be interested in sharing my little company”

He turned to face you, confusion visible on his gorgeous features, or was it fear?

“You will love them. They are a small group of artists, you can only be pleased by their company” You added, hope slowly fading to embarrassment as you saw his head shake in refusal.

“Clarissa, you know that I am not a free man. My master will not allow me more time than he already has” He tried to sound convincing, and for the most part, he wasn’t lying. He couldn’t honor your invitation, even if he really wanted to, if only just to spend some leisure time with you. But seeing your countenance now, God, he wanted to try, he couldn’t stand the look of disappointment and sadness you gave him. 

He reached out, he didn’t think of anything but brushing off the sadness on your face as his hand cupped your cheek, thumb gently caressing the soft skin there, and you leaned into the touch. You missed his hands, the warmth they spread in you. It was different, the feeling of them on your face, and you wondered how they would feel in different places, more intimate places. You sighed as your eyes fluttered shut and he spoke.

“I am going to try, no promises, child”

You smiled at the nickname this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So will he go?


	6. Temptation for Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are getting there...I swear, we are getting there  
> Xoxo

Hot breath on his face, pretty curls caressing his cheeks, heavy lidded eyes burning holes in his soul, as her hips initiated a slow dance on his groin. He inhaled sharply, and his hands traveled to meet them, revelling in the feeling of satin soft sheets, seeking her flesh through the drapery. The touch felt deliciously sinful in its smoothness at first, and his lids fluttered, pleasure sinking in his guts, as his fingers started to dig, kneading the nymph like flesh of her thighs, then just when he was lost in his desire, his nymph started to morph, edges tickling his finger pads, quickly growing and pointing. He opened his eyes, panic overcoming him, and he looked at her, her lips twitched in a smirk Garupe only could qualify as… evil. His frightened eyes looked lower, at the place their bodies met, and he was horrified. Scales like those of a snake had replaced the silky skin, and there were no hips anymore, just one merged shape, snake belly, capturing his hips in a deadly grip , winding around him, tighter and tighter as his breath left his chest, emptying him of life…

Garupe startled awake. Sucking in a long shaky breath, he straightened in his drenched sheets.

_Holy Jesus!_

He reached for his body, it was just a nightmare. A nightmare that left him sweaty and… hard.

_Mary have mercy._

He closed his eyes as the first words of Ave Maria left his trembling dry lips. He couldn’t finish, ashamed and frustrated. A deep grunt echoed in the barely lit walls of his room, as he shifted uncomfortably in his bed, seeking his water carafe beside it just to find it empty. Father Garupe almost sobbed. He was painfully hard, straining in his thin night clothes, his hands fisting the scratchy sheets, resisting the soaring temptation to touch himself and alleviate the humiliating pressure. He hadn’t felt like that for years. He had domesticated his instincts and carnal desires long ago, and it was one of those accomplishments that a man of god was proud of, giving him that heady feeling to be above men, and he was, he was until he saw her pretty mouth, whispering lavishly a name that wasn’t his, her lips, smiling seduction, chewing on the wood of her tools.

Garupe whimpered, mind foggy and full of her, as his hand reached for his length.

_God forgive me_

It didn’t take him long to finish, eyes tightly shut, head thrown backward on his pillow, thick locks of hair sticking to his forehead and the back of his neck as his mouth parted in a silent cry of ecstasy. Images of her flashed under his eyelids, fragments of memories of her touches that diluted as he came back from his high, guilt already tugging at the back of his mind.

He cleaned himself hastily, thinking of an early morning bath, before his brothers awoke. That dinner next day, he promised himself firmly to not go, as he joined the barely comforting warmth of his mattress, mind holding on to the thin consolation this thought provided. 

*

“One of my dear faithfuls is very sick, in his dying bed, your Excellence; the family has requested my presence to administer the last rites and accompany him on his last hours… Tonight.” Francisco lied through his teeth, so easy now, he lied constantly. To the bishop, to Clarissa and most unnervingly to himself, he deceived himself into thinking he wouldn’t be attending that dinner so easily, and now…

“Go then, father, go where you are most needed. Stay as long as it takes. God bless you.”

Now he had no choice. He left the Church, jumped the fence into the woods, changed into his servant clothes without thinking. He was nervous, a little terrified; what awaited him tonight? He wasn’t used to social interactions beyond those at church… he would have to lie a lot, and he decided to avoid entering conversations as much as possible.

As he knocked on your door, he could already hear loud voices and laughter coming from the dining hall, he also caught the delicious scent of a home cooked dinner, something buttery and lovely. His mouth watered even more as you opened the door, looking like the sugariest desert, he had to swallow and blink like a blinded man.

You were wrapped in the fanciest satin gown you had. Full arms exposed as a velvety deep crimson short sleeves caressed the curves of your shoulders. Delicate creamy lace covered barely your cleavage, intricate embroideries dancing on your skin, as your chest heaved. Francisco didn’t know where to look, at the soft locks of your hair, at the glow of your skin or at your cherry lips, tainted with wine.

“Vicente!” You gave him the brightest smile, and in a blast of surprised happiness you opened your bare arms and took his broad waist in a short childish embrace that left him astounded. “…Please, come in” you breathed out, now self-aware of your move, as two dazed eyes bore into yours, black, aflame.

He followed you down the hall and his stomach did those strange flips again as you lightly tugged at his hand, guiding him.

“I’m so glad you could make it”

“Thank my master, he was really understanding. I’ve found being honest and upfront with him is the best approach” He grimaced once again at his shameless dishonesty.

The dining hall was already full of patrons, five or six sitting on a round wooden table, and Francisco noticed the wine was already flowing. You introduced everyone, all different kinds of artists, all men. Dinner was served by the small rascal himself, who kept a close eye on him, sitting by his side when he was done. You sat at his other side, all bright smiles as your scent caressed his nostrils every time you moved, always closer to his chair. 

*

A few hours passed, and it wasn’t going as horribly as he had feared. Sometimes he was made uncomfortable by nosy questions and he had to make up lies on the spot. The men were all friends and were too drunk and wrapped up in each other to pay him much attention, he thanked the heavens for that, the last thing he needed was to be recognized by one of the artists present. He had been introduced as a simple model after all, so they didn’t think they had all that much in common. This left him free to steal some glances at you, laugh at your snarky comments here and there, blush when you leaned into him to whisper some in his ear. Was that some kind of flirting? He knew it was. You didn’t try to hide it anymore, the wine helping, you grew bolder by the second, and he kept smiling at you like a fool.

For high heavens, Miguel was poking him with a fork under the table, threatening to press it harder.

He had had it with little children intimidating him! But, to his relief, you went to his rescue, looking sternly at the boy. Miguel could act as an adult and think and help like one, but he was a child after all, it was past his bed time and you couldn’t tolerate any resistance.

With Miguel gone, Francisco lost some of the tension he was bearing and as his shoulders relaxed, he found himself reaching for a glass of wine, mirroring your movement as he brought it to his lips. He wasn’t a drinker, he knew he couldn’t take alcohol, but god if the whole situation didn’t play with his head. Your presence near him alone was mind blowing. He felt as elated as his first day at the seminar, everything so new and exciting. He laughed with you, revealing the crooked teeth you rarely saw, as the candle lights cast orange shades on his face and raven locks. 

“Miguel seemed disappointed, don’t you think, Clarissa?”

“A little God of Mischief that dear Miguel, isn’t he” You commented kindly.

With his glass of wine half empty, Francisco laughed even more. You two locked eyes. Your eyes fell to his lips, tainted red, just like yours, and you bit your own, You could kiss him right then, as your mind swam in a sweet wined fog and you were just about to act on your instinct, when one of your guests stormed in the dinning hall again.

Agostino was an Italian painter. You first met him two years ago, while in a voyage to Florence, and you both quickly fell into an easy friendship that evolved quickly to heated sex sessions. He was a good lover, for the time it lasted, then you had to return to Portugal and he stayed in Italy, and that was it, until he wrote you, a month ago, informing you that he was in your city, working in collaboration with another master painter. You took the chance to invite him and other artists, deeming the moment right, forgetting how completely barefaced he could be sometimes.

As soon as Agostino laid eyes on you and Francisco, he knew that something was simmering between the two of you. He wasn’t bothered, you and him were history, but he couldn’t just stay silent where there was obvious entertainment awaiting him.

“Oi! Oi! Oi!” He yelled in a drunk laugh, “come here and see this!“ He shouted at the other men that were in the veranda, noisily drinking and joking. They didn’t waste a second to join him, drunken laughs melting into amused “ho’s!” when they saw you just about to kiss a very embarrassed Francisco.

“Seems like our beloved- very dear artist, Clarissa, gentlemen, hear me out … here has just found her next prey … Clarissa, oh my dear, _rail_ him, _wreck_ him tonight, you have my benediction- in the name of the Father- He stopped, waving his hand, he crossed himself, and Francisco’s face couldn’t get any redder, as the others exploded in uncontrolled hiccups, laughing like madmen and whistling as they yelled too;

“Get him Clarissa!”

“Ye! Just _Fuck_ him”

You weren’t a person that was easy to unsettle, you were never a very shy person when it came to these matters; you would laugh with them and joke with them if it was any other man, but not him. You felt horribly ashamed, for that was extremely over the top embarrassing as you saw your poor “Vicente” almost trying to hide behind a curtain, cheeks on fire, lips on fire, eyes on fire, was it the wine? You still wanted to kiss him, half of you was still ignited with want, but you just decided to put a polite end to the mockery and with a faked amused laugh you waved your hands;

“Gentlemen!” You said in a high authoritative tone “It was such an honor to receive you all here, thank you for the amazing and entertaining moments you shared with me tonight, hope that my company was pleasurable, but as you know well every good thing has an end, I wish to see you very soon, as for now I wish you all a good night” You ushered them to the door. Low grumbles of discontentment and drunken whines echoed in your ears as they stumbled on the stairs, reluctant to leave. Agostino turned halfway and gave you a loud kiss on the cheek

“Good nigh- my dear- deeeer Clarita, and …jus…wreck him, will you? for me?” he insisted, as he fell on you, drunk as he was, and tried to regain his balance but couldn’t. You tried to detangle from him, but you didn’t have to try too hard as you saw two strong hands lift the man off you, and as you looked up, you saw Francisco’s pinched brows looking angrily at the man as he effortlessly supported him. On his feet again, Agostino mumbled apologies and tried as he could to join the others. They all waved before disappearing in the frisky night air.

You let out a deep sigh and closed your eyes.

What did he think of you now? You twisted your fingers as you turned to face him. Your heart sank when you saw him put on his cape, ready to leave too, face closed and lips in a thin line.

“Vicente” you whispered, choked in your shame “I didn’t mean you…” you said soft, very soft. Why were you always so soft with him, reducing his defenses to nothing, dust in the wind?

“I should go now, Clarissa” he sighed, “You need rest, child” he bit the inside of his cheek, the nickname always slipping out, the glass of wine not helping him at all, if anything, it was making the whole thing more difficult. His senses were buzzing, a need coiled in his guts, he was barely containing it, God! No, he was unworthy, he didn’t deserve his mercy now.

“Stay” You whispered, cheeks red, oh so red, he closed his eyes, then looked away. It was late, half of the candles had melted in their candelabrums, porcelain and silver plates feebly glinting in the half-light of the hall, curtains gently swaying with the breeze. And you were standing there, his devil-angel, draped in crimson, waiting for him. He could hear his heartbeats in the anxious silence, and as he stayed mute and waited, you advanced.

“Come, I want to work a little. Please forgive me?” So soft. Why were you so soft?

He was entranced, your hand leading him to the atelier. He kept silent, warmth seeping in him, stronger than his reason, sinking his beliefs, his principles and his faith. Far was the church and the prayers and his brothers, far was his pain and his cousin’s misfortune. Far was God.

There were your hands, gently tugging on his collar, eyes pleading.

“Can I?” So soft.

He breathed out, looking down at you. Everything was confusing. He had undressed in front of you these last few sessions, and now that you wanted to do it for him, he could barely breathe. This was different, it was something else, it was not work. It was something else, barely veiled.

But he nodded his consent. And you in that fancy dress, how could you even work? But the wine… He shouldn’t have… oh your lips… he shouldn’t.

But your hands where already on the linen of his shirt, gently popping the buttons open, breath fanning his collarbones. Slowly, you worked your way down as a frown started to form on your face and your hands stilled. Why? Why were you frowning at him? Why had you stopped, just when he was giving in, just when he wanted you to just do whatever you desired with him tonight, just when he started to hope that indeed, this, this wasn’t work.

“What… Vicente?” your voice was shaking. Why?

“ _What is this_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sORRY NOT sORRY  
> xD


	7. Tell Me Everything, Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lot of anger, lot of smut ^^   
> ENJOY darlings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating change !

His rosary beads went flying off his neck.

His rosary…

His rosary!

_God of earth and heaven._

How did he… How did he forget his rosary under his habits? 

Francisco thought this would be a simple dinner. In the precipitation of his actions, his mind preoccupied by the lies he prepared to tell, he forgot to pay attention. He didn’t think he had to take his clothes off, he was wrong. So wrong.

But now only Clarissa’s eyes mattered. With a glare that seemed inhuman, she stared and stared, surprise and shock slowly turning into rage and disgust. And he already felt sick, falling, he was feeling as if his soul was crucified, twisting on an abstract cross, again and again, without finding relief, painfully wringing and quivering in his body.

“These rosary beads are… I saw them… They belong to the Jesuit priests of…”

“I… Clarissa! I was about to tell you, I swear to God, I was about to tell you.” Garupe choked while talking. Voice small like that of a child.

“Tell me what?” You didn’t seem to understand yet. You pushed away a truth that was flagrant, denying reason for few more seconds, pushing the pain away, for few more little seconds. Vicente was a servant, just a servant, an _unmarried_ servant that was just about to be yours. No, he can’t be. HE CAN’T.

He was falling and falling and falling.

With every second, every shake of your lovely curls, every swell of tears in your eyes, he was falling.

“Vicente… Tell me it’s not what I think, _please_ , tell me.”

“Francisco” He swallowed his own tears, closing his eyes in shame.

“Francisco… Francisco!” You laughed, crying. You laughed madly, so madly you made him gasp, you made him worry for your sanity and he reached for you without thinking twice. 

“Don’t you dare! Snake!” you spat out, slapping his hand.

Your world was falling apart, a mirror of lies, shattering and breaking in sharp pieces, wounding you in their burst.

Why?

Why would he be one of them? Of all men, why would he be a priest? A priest!

“Clarissa… I… please listen to me… I was going to tell you, I—“

How dared he speak again?

“Hypocrite!“ You yelled, “I knew you were all but muddy pigs, black vultures from hell! Murderers, schemers!”

You smashed an empty water bottle on the floor, glass spattering everywhere and Garupe gulped again, but in fear.

“Clarissa, I beg you to hear me out! just… please—“

“Shut up! Close that rancid mouth of yours!” You blurted out, anger blurring you vision. You saw red. 

“I am going to tell your church of your shameful activities, if in hell I should rot, I swear to every god existing , if there is any, I will destroy you!” you panted. You were trembling all over, heart wild, wrath setting every nerve of your body on fire.

“Or is it the church that sent you?” you hissed in realization, more tears flowing “Is it those hordes of blood thirsty raptors? Finishing their work, they want to get me now? They are coming for his daughter now, aren’t they?” Your voice broke.

You felt poisoned. Liquid cyanide in your blood.

Francisco was shaking, head spinning. What were you talking about?

You didn’t seem to notice his twisted features, face contorted in pain and confusion, so lost in your own suffering and bitterness. 

He didn’t know what to do, he hoped Miguel was still sleeping wherever he was. It was absurd, but that’s what Garupe hoped for now. For a child not to witness that ignominy.

“Clarissa—“ He said quiet, but a flying glass almost landed on his face and he pounced on you, stilling you in place. He didn’t want to hurt you, not for anything in the world. But then at that rate, he had no choice. He had to talk sense into you but first he had to calm you down, make you listen to him.

Your back thumped on the hard wall as you screamed.

“Bastard! I am going to ki—“

Suddenly his lips were on yours, as his arms held your body in a death grip. Forceful and rough, he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know how to act, so he just kissed you. He had never kissed a woman before, and if he had ever imagined kissing a woman, it was never in that manner. But he kissed you, open mouth closing on yours, he kissed you with anger and pain and passion and all the desire he had retained for so, so long.

You stilled. You really stilled. The world blanked out for the moment of a heartbeat, the flutter of an eyelash, and the universe shrunk to its primal nothingness. Then a breath, then another, and another.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He kissed you again and again, urgency in his movements, in his hands, his lips. He was everywhere, all around you, your whole universe. And you wanted to forget, just for a moment, forget who he was, forget what he did.

“I’m sorry” His shaky breaths came as urgent as his kisses. Because he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to say, he just wanted you to forgive him, he just wanted _you_.

Your nails were painful on his chest as you reciprocated his kisses. Finally.

Oh he was sorry, you knew, but you weren’t, you weren’t for what you were about to do to him tonight. He could be theirs, but not tonight, he was yours tonight. Your anger and pain melted into nothing as the heat of him invaded your senses, everything merged into a desperate need, a flame that bloated into a wildfire.

“I’m sorr—“

“Shuuush… Come here, you are going to sin tonight, F _ather_ _._ ” You panted, eyes dark like unfathomable seas as you violently pulled on his hand, leading him through your galleries up to your room.

The heavy wooden door closed with a thud behind your back as you leant on it.

“I can tell you everything.” Francisco breathed out.

“I said, silence.” You pushed him into the bed, into your crimson sheets, where you had wanted him for countless nights, pleasuring yourself at the thought of him. He looked divine; You let out a small laugh of satisfaction, fingers on your corset, freeing your waist from its confinement. With a deftness he found dizzying, you got rid of your heavy dress, and the ribbons that held your hair up.

You stood in your undergarments before him, like the portrait of sin, skin glowing and shiny with the sweat of your desire, breasts barely covered as you slowly crossed the few steps separating you from him.

Francisco clenched the satin sheets in his fists, heart hammering in his ribcage as you crawled on him, slowly unbuttoning that old ragged shirt he wore, your palm gentle on his abdomen, pushing him further into the depths of your bed.

He felt like he was swimming, surrounded by red waves, and you the sea siren, enchanting his senses, bringing him down, deeper. You hovered over him, your curls fell on him like a silky curtain, your hard nipples brushed his chest under your thin garments and he inhaled the scent of you.

Like the ocean. small white villages on the oceanside. Heat, children playing and women laughing and him, barefoot, running on the beach. Sunsets in the horizon and hundreds of ships, sailing far away, to lands of gold and glory. You smelled like home and he smiled, eyes closed as you nudged his nose, endless teasing before closing your lips on his again, savoring his taste. He shuddered and ground towards you as your tongue teased his, and when you sucked into it, into his red lavish lips, his moans echoed desperate and needy.

Outside, the leaves of your garden’s trees whispered and fluttered, and the moon was full in the starry sky. You inhaled, deep and shaky into his feverish skin. He smelled like old paper and perfumed wax, so monastic, a far reminder of his celibacy. You grinned to yourself, triumphant as his breath became shallower, urgency in his gaze as he devoured you under heavy eyelids. But you remained in control, tapping on his hands every time they wanted to grasp you. A part of you wanted to punish him, you wanted to show him who had the power over the other tonight. Tonight was for your pleasure, even if it was only this time, even if this was to be your only and sole union in flesh. But as you started tugging on his slacks, unwrapping his last layers of modesty, you saw terror and distress in his eyes .

“Clarissa, please… I’ve never… You should know.”

His eyes were like those of a deer, already knowing it has fallen deep into the hunter’s trap, begging, wide, sparkling, teary… beautiful.

Surprise flashed through your eyes for a second. Was he telling you that he had never slept with a woman before? You stilled your palms on his wonderful chest, heaving now with excitement and apprehension. Should you believe him this time? He had lied to you before, he had lied to you about everything, to be fair.

“You’ve never?” You crooked a brow, doubtful. 

“Please,” he almost sobbed, “what should I do to make you believe me?” He closed his eyes, trying to gain some control over himself.

“You should have told me the truth from _the beginning_!” You fisted your hands on his chest, leaving hot red marks on his skin. You shouldn’t have let him talk. He looked so sincere now, so vulnerable, and God, why was he a million times more beautiful like that?

“ I couldn’t… I couldn’t… you should know that I couldn’t…!” he swallowed painfully, trying to ignore how your hips were still grinding into his aching cock.

His hands reached slowly to take yours and you let him this time, breath unsteady as they eclipsed yours, warm and so masculine. 

“I… It is not the Church Clarissa, it’s just me, I needed the money… I had to… Then I saw… _you_ _._ ”

“Hush now.” You said softly. His words were what you wanted and dreaded to hear at the same time. Somewhere, in the darkest corners of your soul, you wanted him to be the evil one, the liar, the vicious priest, you wanted to be right, always right. You wanted to dismiss the feelings that were seeping free again. You wanted to make this about pleasure, since you knew, anything more than that and your heart would be the only one paying the expenses. But now… you didn’t know anymore.

“Please stop talking…” You whispered, as you freed your hands to comb on his luxuriant mane, fingers detangling the knots there.

“Hush, close your eyes for me, Francisco.”

And he did, you didn’t have to ask twice. He was telling you the truth, you knew it suddenly as a tear rolled down his cheek, leaking from his closed eye. You leaned in to kiss it, and you kissed his eyelids, the ridge of his nose, his upper lip then his cheeks, his jaw… and when you bit his lower lip, his hands clutched your waist through the linen of your clothes and he thrusted up, legs shaking with want.

“You can take it off… _Father_ _._ ” Your voice barely there as you nibbled on his earlobe and guided his hands to the hems of your undergarments. Francisco’s body was barely holding back, eyes still closed, he focused on the sensation of his hands on your bare thighs, as he slid the thin clothing up, up, up… When your body was finally freed of its last constraint, he opened his eyes and his breath hitched in his throat .

_Sweet Jesus._

He had never seen such beauty before. For long seconds, he stilled, eyes taking in the sight before him. You were glowing, silky curves and valleys on display as you smiled down at him. Francisco was suddenly afraid to touch you. He felt ignorant, small, unrefined as his eyes roamed the swell of your breasts, the smoothness of your belly and the nook of your… sex.

So different, this was so different from the guilty glimpses he sometimes took of nude statues of goddesses that decorated the palaces and gardens he visited. Cold white marble, it was just cold marble and his only poor knowledge of the female body. But you… now, before him, radiant with heat and arousal, flesh and skin offered to him, eyes daring him to touch you, to take you, to make you his…

_God have mercy._

You were amused to see him, awestruck and clueless, palms flat on your thighs and eyes wide, lips parted.

“Come here, you poor thing.” You laughed seductively as you tugged on his hands, lifting him up to meet your body, overheated from endless teasing and impatience. Your mouth found his neck as you pushed your breasts into his hands. He whined, your tender nipples hardening against his fingers, and instinctively, he squeezed, making you moan into his mouth.

_God._

You looked up, into the fire in his eyes, and smiled, as if to say “ _that’s nothing compared to what’s coming_ , _Father_ ”. And as you started to roll your hips again, he felt it this time, the wetness between your legs, the proof of your passion, coating his engorged sex, and he knew he was lost.

Your lips left his neck with a sticky pop. You were sure to leave your mark on his divine body, as you tugged on his hair and made him shudder with sinful pleasure.

“Look at me Francisco.”

His eyes instantly fell on yours, ready to take anything you wanted to give to him. Like a love sick fool, he was waiting, his hands flexing greedily on the expanse of your back, descending hesitantly to take more. He was still wondering if he would last more than the next five minutes. He didn’t want to disappoint you, he wanted to please you, oh so much, he wanted to make up for everything he had done to you, for every single lie. Was this ache in his heart what they called love? Was he in love with you? What was the difference anyway, he was lost, not only in the wonders of your body, but lost to himself, in himself. He was entering unknown territories, ones he had never wanted to enter, never wanted to know. Trepidations, anxiety and heartache. He had never wanted this, but feeling you now, watching you move on him, looking into your eyes, touching your hot skin, waiting for a word from you rosy lips, God, he understood now… He understood how men lost their faith for love, how they lost themselves for a woman, how they lost their minds…

“I want you to touch me there.” You breathed in his mouth, as you took his hand and splayed it on your sex.

“H-how… do—“ He was truly lost. But somehow nothing seemed more tempting than to touch you there, nothing seemed more perfect than to pleasure you there, he wanted to know how to do it properly, he wanted to make you sigh and moan his name. It was instinctive, his fingers were naturally drawn there, exploring your secret lips as you moved your hips to let him in.

As you changed position, his throbbing cock twitched against his abdomen, proud and thick with need, seeking your attention. The head was already leaking pearly precum, and the pained look on Francisco’s eyes told you of his efforts to keep himself from finishing right there, as his fingers soaked and indulged in your juices. His breaths were coming ragged and short and he was whispering incoherent words (or were they prayers?) as he buried his nose in your collarbone, avidly inhaling your scent. You had never thought that the sight of such poor unexperienced man would arouse you so badly. You wanted to show him, you wanted to make him feel good, appease him now. With tenderness blooming in your heart, you shoved his fingers away.

“You first.” You caressed his hair, seeking his attention.

“Mhm… Please… I’m sorry…” He managed to stutter.

“Open your legs for me, _Father_ ” Your low voice sent shudders down his spine.

He hesitated, face red, limbs buzzing with electricity. 

“Don’t be shy now, beautiful thing.” You leaned, left a kiss on his head and he jolted, hips bucking to meet your mouth, as he sucked in a deep breath. You parted his legs further, you wanted to see everything. He was really well endowed, you admired, beautiful everywhere.

“Breathe, Father, you can take this.” You patted his thigh and lowered your mouth, eyes always locked with his to seek his permission. He swallowed and threw his head back on your crimson pillows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and his hands sweaty, fisting your sheets.

You started slow, peppering light kisses on his length. With the tip of your tongue you wetted the underside of it, from the base to the tip. You hummed at the salty taste, your core tightened around a void, and you huffed with edginess. You straddled his thigh then, and moaned as your cunt rubbed on the firm muscle. Once settled and able to take the edge off, you took him in the heat of your mouth and started to suck, rhythmically with the undulations of your hips on his thigh.

Francisco chocked and gasped, spasmed under you. Jesus, he had never felt such a sensation before. His rough fist paled before the wet and smooth insides of your pretty mouth, showering his most intimate parts with care. His eyelids fluttered, as the doors to heaven opened behind them. God, it felt so good. He never knew it was in the power of a human to make another feel that good, almost too good to handle, and he struggled with his will to restrain himself, as your lips closed tight around him, hummed and moaned around him, he did the same, loud and shameless now.

“God… oh… God, please… sweet child, more… m-hhore”

“There” you stopped to catch your breath, mouth swollen and red, spit glistening on your enflamed lips. You returned to the task, sucking hard and fast on his head, as you fisted his base with one hand, and toyed with his balls with the other. You worked with purpose now, passion in your movements, heat coiling in your core, conscious of your cunt drooling on his thigh, his meaty cock filling your mouth deliciously, his moans music spurring you on, undeniable proof of his pleasure.

He was close to his release now, the familiar pool of liquid heat running through his veins, sending waves of shock through his body. His thighs began to spasm and he tried to warn you, too ashamed and innocent to know that him spilling in your mouth was exactly the thing you desired, that wanting to taste his seed in your mouth was the ultimate sign of your desire and infatuation…and love. He was soon to learn that, as you protested in a moan, and gripped him harder, worked faster and he lost all control.

_God in heaven._

Francisco thought he was ascended to the ninth heaven, magnificent golden light exploding behind his shut eyes, as he spent into your hot mouth… ropes of his seed, thick and abundant, coating your lips and dribbling over your chin, as your nostrils flared and your chest heaved. No sound emitted from him, too spent to utter a word, too spent to remember how to breathe, too far gone in the aftermath of his pleasure.

You sighed as you watched him, pride swelling in your chest. You had wanted him for so long. Tortuous endless nights of hot wet dreams and solitary pleasure, and now, admiring the sight before you, you knew, he was endlessly yours. No church, no misunderstandings and no barriers, human or godly, would ever make it less true. He was _yours._

“Pleased?” you rubbed his belly, helping him recover, as sweat beaded on his brow, the last remnants of his high dissipating.

“It was… so goo—hd… more than good… was… j—hust… ” Words failed him as he managed to smile, dimples gracing his cheeks, hands already seeking for you.

“Come, come here, child.”

You kissed him sweetly on his inner thigh before you obliged.

“Can I make you feel the same…? I mean is it possible?” he asked sheepishly. 

“You are a silly man, Francisco” you laughed and crawled on him, kissing your way up.

He laughed awkwardly, wondering if he earned the label.

“Of course you are going to make me feel good too, just with those wondrous fingers” you took two of his thick, long fingers and put them into your mouth, wetted them nice before bringing them to your sex again, “Remember how to use them?”

He nodded and wrapped one arm over your waist as his fingers delved into the velvet of your cunt, swollen and so ready now. You guided him with praise, as you rutted into his palm. He was naturally talented, seeking and flickering your folds artfully. You had awakened his senses to the pleasures of the flesh, and he understood his effect on you, as you writhed in his arms, as your teeth bit on his nipples, as your mouth expelled languid moans. He found your entrance and a gasp of surprise left his parted lips.

“Yes… You are almost there. Inside, I want you inside…”

“There?” He asked in his deepest voice, making you shudder.

“Ye—ees” You nudged his nose, foreheads touching as his hot breath fanned your lips.

His fingers easily slipped into your slick heat, moving experimentally, rubbing your walls in and out, slowly. You didn’t expected him to know, yet… but god if he wasn’t blowing your mind just trying.

“Can you… mhmm yes… Can you move like that for me?”

You guided his fingers all the way out to your clitoris and back inside you.

“Like that but faster, please?” you moaned at the end of your sentence, your sweet priest already on task.

His strong diligent digits worked you with devotion, pinched brows as he focused on bringing you to orgasm, and soon enough your walls started to clench around them, as your whole being reached for him. 

“Please… Please.. Please…”

He was dizzy, didn’t even know what you were begging for, but oh how he wanted to deliver…

_Please be with me_

_Please stay after_

_Please love me_

_Please_

_I forgive you._

Your soul chanted, your vision shattered and you cried out his name, whole body quivering upward, mouth trying to catch his, fingers holding on to his strong shoulders as you climaxed high, so high.

“Did… Did I hurt you?” Francisco was utterly terrified. He stopped his ministrations, two thick fingers stilled deep inside you. 

Poor innocent man.

You laughed in your haze and shook your head lazily. 

“No, silly. No.” You whispered softly, head finally resting on his chest “You made me feel so good, and when a woman feels so good in her lover’s arms, she lets him know… loudly…” You sighed. He was so endearing as realization hit him, and he blushed further, as if it was even possible.

You slowly moved his fingers out of you, kissed them gently.

“Goodness… Are you here, for real, with me?” He spoke softly, body slack in the afterglow. He didn’t have the strength to linger on his acts for now, he allowed himself to just feel, touch, breathe, live in the moment, with you.

“Does this feel real?” You pinched his pec and he recoiled, surprised.

“Ow!”

“So?”

“It does!”

“And this?” You kissed his lips, achingly slow.

“It does…” He exhaled, low into your lips.

“Good. Now tell me everything, Father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Virgin Garupe y'all ;) that's the note.


	8. The Undoing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 90% shameless smut and 10% angst !  
> ENJOY !

Silence settled between you. He clutched your hand on his heart as you laid across his frame, him not complaining a bit of your sated body weight crushing on him. for all you knew, he was floating in the same state of bliss as yours. He told you everything. He talked for what seemed like an eternity. he poured his heart out naked for you, pleading his cause to you, as if you were now the most important person in his life, as if his church didn’t matter anymore, as if he wanted just you, to hell with the rest. His hands always nervous, fidgeting with your sheets, with your hair, or moving about the space every time he wanted to make his point. They had a life of their own, you noticed, not without amusement. Yourself couldn’t keep your hands from wandering along his body, mapping every nook and crook as you both talked softly.

Settling finally on his softened cock, you could feel his little gasp as he tried to find some rest in a half slumber state. You wanted him again, and you really wanted it all this time. God knew it could be the last time.

As for you, you knew he could do another round. His length twitched between your fingers, your ministrations feather light. You outlined his smooth warm member, working it hard again, with such awe and adoration, lips parted while you watched it grow. You glanced up to see your man sigh, head thrown back on your silky pillows. Completely surrendering to you, he let you settle between his legs again, hands lazily trying to caress every patch of skin he could reach. When you got him half hard, you straddled him, ground your mound against his balls so the tight flesh was rubbing your heat, you cradled his length with your gentle hands and settled it against your lower belly. You smiled down at him as you felt him thrum under you, already. No rush, your eyes besought as your palms continued their slow travel up and down his flushed flesh, nestling it flat to your skin.

It was almost protective, he thought, the way you claimed him. There was something in the way you looked at him, touched him, as if he was precious and valued, not as a servant or an object of pleasure, not like his church peers saw him, not like anyone ever looked at him, not even his mother, but what did he remember of his mother, anyway.

Francisco’s eyes fluttered and he whimpered quietly. You kept your eyes locked on his. Your right hand flattened on his lower abdomen, scratching his pubic hair as your left forefinger circled his head, sensually taking in the texture there. You felt a pool of wetness slide down your cunt and you moaned. His thighs jerked up and you steadied him with yours, trapping him firmly against your bed, him too weakened by desire to protest.

“Slow, there” You teased, smiling and wetting your lips.

“I… I don’t know if… I can”

“Of course you can, beautiful thing”

You applied a light pressure on the base of his cock and he whined, hand seeking yours, bringing you down to him once he succeeded to grab it, with a force that made you hiccup in surprise.

“I want to hold you” there was hunger in his voice, need, danger. All of it was welcome.

“Hold me, then, Francisco”

His strong arms tightened around you, as he brought your face down to his level, capturing your mouth in a loud messy kiss before he flipped you on your back, caging you with his imposing stature.

His sudden fierceness left you breathless, chest heaving under him, anticipation licking at your skin as he eyed you, splayed on the dark crimson sheets, skin feebly glowing with the last candles still alight.

Francisco had never felt such hunger in all his miserable joyless life. He knew anger, he knew frustration, he knew sickness, but never such insatiable force-draining desire, now it was consuming him like hell’s blazes, assaulting him in waves, awakening every primal instinct he thought buried and tamed long ago. He wanted to possess you, he wanted you his, he wanted you full of him. He wanted to hold you gently and caress you and shower you with praise and make love to you, he also wanted to claim every inch of your body, manhandle you, fondle you… pound in your perfect cunt, wanted to… God… he wanted to fuck you, fuck you full of his seed, till exhaustion.

He couldn’t fight his fantasies, now that he had crossed every line with you. It was as if you had opened his personal Pandora box, and as if he was visualizing every desire escape from it and come to life in his mind. And as his gaze devoured the seams of your breasts and hips, as he found himself dive in your warm flesh, passionately, without restraint, as his hands roamed your back, crashing you to his chest, feverish lips and tongue laving at every inch of your skin, he knew that there was no coming back .

Even if Francisco returned to father Garupe. Even if he decided to never return to your arms after that escapade night, even if he ceased to come to you, he would never be the same man.

Your moans were muffled in his flesh, you were barely breathing as he held you impossibly close, rutting into you, unleashed beast. His love bites reddened your flesh, the suction sounds he was making resounded in the heat of your core. You held onto the muscles of his back, feeling them flex deliciously under your palm as his long body curved around you, his erection rubbing your belly.

“Tell me your desires” He breathed in your ear, husky, wet lips trembling, you were _wrecking_ him.

When he loosened his hold, just sufficiently so you could draw in a shaky breath and talk, his eyes were pools of liquid honey; you wanted to drown in them.

“I want your lips on me” You smiled lazily.

He kissed you deep, all silky tongue and hot, swollen lips.

“And…?” dimples blooming as he smiled back at you. 

“I need your hands on me”

“Where… tell me, child, where do you want me to touch you…”

“Everywhere, oh Francisco… tell me… tell me that you love my body” You sighed. Biting you lip, you couldn’t yet… couldn’t ask him if he loved you. Too scared, you, fierce and brave, were scared of that overeducated, shy helpless man.

He shivered and rolled you both on your sides.

“ Sweet child, do you know how? …Your body… Like a little sparrow in my palm” He kissed the dip where your neck and shoulder met “Like the softest, smallest little sparrow, little child” he kissed deeper, nipping at the tender skin there “That little body” he rambled, and heat flooded between your thighs. Replying with a pleasured moan, you began to rub against him in earnest, inciting him to settle his erection between your slick folds. He hummed his readiness, and you parted your thighs, reaching for his hips to bring him where you wanted him most.

His lips found home between the dip of your arm and your breast and he focused on lapping there as his hips started grinding into you. He didn’t know yet what to do, or how to proceed. he had the vague idea of it, when you guided his fingers into you, mere few hours earlier, so he just rutted into you, lost and desperate until he heard your indulgent laugh in his hair.

“Francisco… let me show you, let me guide you” you whispered, laugh lingering in your voice, the look he gave you then was disarming, big, hungry, lost eyes begging you to just do so.

You felt his gasps and shudders as your hand slid between your bodies, curling around his heavy length and rubbing the smooth head against your entrance. You both whined, ragged breaths and impatient huffs. When you succeeded to nestle the tip into you, he exhaled a choked whimper.

“You’re almost there… push in… slowly” you barely could mutter, caressing his hair and spurring him with praise. 

Francisco did as he was told.

In vain he struggled to suppress the primal groan that left his throat when he nestled into the snug fit of your insides as his body curled forward, his brows pinched together, intense, electrifying pleasure igniting sparkles in his belly, and he was on the verge of begging you to stop, to stop the spell you cast on him… whatever it was, he wanted to be beg you to take pity on him. To set him free, to take him higher.

Your moans when he thrusted into you that night, your cries of pleasure, your hiccups when he found every spot that made you almost believe in his God…. He could never erase from his memory. Higher and higher and higher. Your bodies seemed to never detangle as you met him thrust for thrust, always harder, always faster, sweat and slick, whimpers and whines and praises and blasphemies. Your back arched, his thighs gripped your hips like a vice, you thought your were levitating, the force of your desire enough to defy gravity. Francisco was panting, every drag of his cock made your cunt clench around it, tight, hot, dripping. You were close. Oh how every lover you had before paled compared to Francisco’s raw power and masculinity. You unleashed the devil, you laughed into his cleavage, and he tightened his hold, bit on your shoulder, pulled on your hair, and so did you.

“Are you going to make that sweet sound again for me, Clarissa?”

You laughed. Oh, so your sweet, shy priest was actually a dirty talker? What a surprise.

“Tell me” he thrusted harder.

“Maybe I would do better if you fuck me good”

“Am I… fucking… you good?”

“Humhum, let me consider…” You teased.

“I’m not a patient man”

“No, you are a stubborn one, I am the patient one”

“I want to hear you now” He chuckled, moustache tickling your oversensitive skin.

He sucked hard on your pulsing vein, his hand coming to cradle your face, eyes seeking the signs of your approaching orgasm as his hips accelerated their frenetic pounding, as his own climax built and built, feral, animalistic, primal. He fucked you like a heathen, bathing in your drool and sweat and slick, then he heard you.

It began in successive little spasms that shook you all the way to the core, each fast little breath a hiccup, your eyes rolled in their orbits, eyelids palpitating like a trapped bird’s wings, then heat, waves of heat shot through your veins. You throbbed against him as your jaw went slack, quick lewd moans escaped your gaping lips. You sobbed in bliss, and that was it for him. His hips stilled, length twitching and spilling in you, hot burning liquid fire. A wheeze left his lungs and he thought he experienced death, but what death was that sweet? Your orgasms lasted long after, little aftershocks, uncontrolled tremors. His spent dripped off your cunt as his thrusts took a lazy rhythm, him peppering light kisses along your shoulders and collarbones, you still whining softly out of overstimulation but not wanting this to come to an end, ever.

Your hands went to caress his soft butt cheeks and he stopped, looked at you with drunken eyes and laughed.

“That tickles” he whispered, playful. He had a gorgeous laugh, you thought, deep but juvenile, that of a man whose childhood was happy but ended prematurely. You wondered as you smiled to him, closed your eyes, imagining Francisco as a child, his big curly mane, his dreams and hopes and innocent play and your heart swelled with love, again.

“Tell me about your childhood” You finally asked, unsure, as he nestled his head against your breast and threw his large arm around you.

When the answers didn’t come, you risked a look at him and found him passed out, lips parted and already snoring very very softly. You sighed, content nonetheless. You drifted to sleep with his heartbeat as a lullaby.

*

Light broke through windows. Dawn of a night spent without prayers.

Ceiling to floor windows and only the pink-yellow sky was visible. Francisco woke up smiling, gentle like the satin sheets tangled between his legs, tender like the velvety flesh pressed against his chest. A dream, he thought, just a dream. He was in his cold cell, him and his miserly gothic window, out of reach. And that warmth, that soft skin rubbing against his, it’s just his books, his theology books, pages smooth by dint of sharing his tight rusty bed. Francisco startled awake, fully awake.

Holy father!

You were drawn from your peaceful rest with him, hands already trying to catch him as he hopped off your bed. Wild with fear and panic.

Can’t any good thing last?

Your eyes met. He was wonderful in his morning nakedness. His hair a force of nature, a battle raged in his irises. And he was leaving you.

“I… have to go”

You nodded.

_Will you come back to me?_

_Will you return?_

_Do you love me?_

You said nothing of these.

With each layer of cloth covering his body your heart wept. You squeezed your crimson sheets against your neck, the memory of the previous night still marked your body. His too. In a moment of hopelessness, you still hoped a cleric would notice. You hoped a cleric would report him, you hoped a cleric would send him crawling back to you, with no option but to love you, but to stay with you, to hold you night after night, till your veins run dry.

You sighed, he cupped a cheek.

“Don’t cry, child”

You shook your head. You weren’t crying.

“Next week, we will see each other again”

You nodded furiously.

A peck and he was gone.

*

The rustle of fabrics in your atelier, the light ladies laughter and whispers fouled the air around you. You choked in your black confinement. That day you sent everyone away, for the third time.

Two weeks had passed without Francisco’s gentle knock on your door. Without Francisco timid greetings, without Francisco’s warmth, without his kisses, without his soft deep voice filling the solitude in your walls and your heart with hope and light.

_“All I have known, all my life, was the church”_ he confided that night _“They were kind to me, they fed me, they sheltered me, they made me a man, Clarissa. You can see whatever you want to see, you can hate the institution and its clergy, you can think of them as killers and “schemers“_ _,_ _but they are all the family I’ve ever had… I avow, I know there are evil men amongst them, I have seen them, I have heard about their misdeeds… But please understand my position. I can’t leave the church. This I can’t. I can’t ethically, I can’t legally. I have faith, and I will still be with you…”_

_I will still be with you._

You sat alone in your room, nights without sleep, days without rest.

His voice echoed in the empty chambers of your mind. Replaying his words, trying to find a breach, a sign… a lie.

_“…I already knew the intensity of your hate for the church… God Clarissa, it was so obvious it made me feel angry and when I wasn’t, I was so inflicted about_ _… about my feelings for a woman who hated my God. Who hated my institution. It kept me awake at night…”_

His feelings. His anger, his infliction. You wondered if it was still keeping him awake at night. You wondered if the battle was over in his heart. You wondered if he had chosen them.

_“My feelings…”_

_“I’ll still be with you…”_

_“…we will see each other again”_

You swallowed the knot in your throat. Hung to his words, like a credulous kid. He had such convincing power when he talked, such passion and determination when he looked at you with the biggest eyes, such magnetism in his words. You believed him.

And as tears bit your cheeks, as you felt them acid on your skin, you still believed him.


End file.
